A Whisper of Something: Contre Tous Cote
by BellsOfRomeToll
Summary: In the end, there is nothing left. There is only a whisper of something. Collection of Dramione short stories. Rated K-T
1. Different

This collection is written for the ever awesome Amber Moonbeam's birthday! Happy Birthday!

Enjoy.

Title: Different

Words: 638

Rating: T

They weren't star crossed lovers, nor did they experience love at first sight. Draco didn't even believe in love anyway. It was just a bunch of crap, spouted by hopeless romantics who wore their hearts on their sleeves.

They were enemies, from different houses, fighting on different sides. He was a Pureblood, she a Muggleborn. Purebloods despised Muggleborns, calling them Mudbloods. He called her that, once, in second year.

"_Nobody asked your opinion, Mudblood." _

It was true. She was always sticking her nose into things that didn't concern her, piping up with her opinions in that know—it—all voice. She was so, so bloody stubborn and determined, standing up for what she believed in.

She obviously believed in Hagrid, because she slapped him—boy, did it leave a red imprint for ages afterward—when he'd insulted Hagrid. She stuck up for0020`her friends, and certainly adopted a fiery attitude to those who weren't. Especially those who mocked her friends. Fitting the description perfectly would be him. Malfoy. The terrible person who caused all damage. The Amazing Bouncing Ferret.

And _yes, _he knew about that. He had his sources, after all. Actually, no, that wasn't true. He eavesdropped on their conversation after the Incident. He'd heard Weasley's comment, him being Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret.

He _also_ heard what she said _"He(Professor Moody) could have really hurt Malfoy though. It was good, really, that Professor McGonagall stooped it." _

There was her know—it—all voice again, but behind it was—concern, if he was correct.

"Draco," A whisper calls him. He opens his eyes—and stares into brown ones. He struggles to sit up—there's an insistent throbbing in his head. "Granger," he says, but his tongue feels like a block of wood and he knows his words are slurring.

Hermione Granger is startled to find Draco Malfoy slumped against a wall. At first she thinks he'd dead, but a close look reveals his flickering, almost—but—not quite closed eyes. So she calls him, and he answers, albeit weakly. He sits up, wincing. She glances up his body, her eyes landing on his head.

The dark shade of blood starkly contrasts against his platinum blond hair. It flows, slowly, turning his hair almost red. Swallowing, she pushes back the bile threatening to rise.

"Draco, Draco," Hermione whispers. She feels him slipping away, into unconsciousness. "Don't leave me. Stay. With me."

At her words, his eyes jerk open again. Molten silver orbs stare into milk chocolate ones for a moment, before the gaze is broken.

"What are you doing here, Granger?' he asks tiredly. The world's growing dimmer and all he wants to do is lie back and sleep. "You're hurt—your head," is her reply.

When he hesitantly touches her shoulder, she freezes for a second, breath hitching. He removes his hand, showing her. It's blood.

"Oh." She had not realized that.

The surprise on her face is evident. What a silly girl she was, not even realising she was injured. Instead, she went about caring for others—him—instead of taking care of herself.

"I guess I'll meet you in heaven Malfoy."

He stares at her, disbelieving. "No you won't. I'll be in hell, you'll be in heaven."

"Malfoy, do you really think you're irredeemable? You aren't. We _will_ meet in heaven. Together." Hermione states firmly.

She reaches out, touching his lips to hers.

She tastes like strawberries, mixed with a salty tinge of blood. She tastes of sweet redemption, of innocence intact.

He tastes of blood, regretful. Of surrender and despair. Yet, there is innocence, thought to be long lost.

They wrap in each other's embrace, leaning into each other, their blood mixing together.

Blackness overwhelms them. They will meet in heaven, together.

They were poles apart, so different, but meant to be.


	2. Real

Title: Real

Words: 894

Rating: T

The first thing Hermione notices when she arrives home is the quivering table. As well as her books, which are sliding left and right, not quite sure which way to move.

As she tries to save her books from falling off the edge of the table, she hears a voice behind her.

"Granger, are you a glutton for punishment? Being with Weaselbee. Would you like to marry him then?" Draco's voice is cold, devoid of any emotion.

When she turns around, she is not surprised to find his face a mask. It's what happens whenever Draco is either very furious or hurt.

"Draco," Hermione starts gently, "What are you talking about?"

"What _I am _talking about? More like the entire Wizarding world," Draco sneers in reply, at the same time shoving a copy of the Daily Prophet at Hermione.

She takes it, puzzled. The first things she sees makes her blood boil.

_Always Back to the Golden Trio, _is what the headlines scream.

"_Old habits die hard, Rita Skeeter says about war hero First Class Hermione Granger. She has always stayed close to war heroes. So it's a total shock that she chose Draco Malfoy, anti war hero, over Ronald Weasley._

_Yet, old habits die hard, it seems. Hermione Granger, seen perching on the arm of Ronald Weasley, looking very cosy together._

That's all Hermione she can stand to read. She slams the Daily Prophet down. "Skeeter, still hasn't learned her lesson?" She scathes.

Draco's face is still unbelievably expressionless. He stares coldly at her.

"Draco, you know it's not like that," Hermione pleads. "It's Rita Skeeter's doing. I promise, nothing is going on between Ron and me. We're just friends."

"I cannot believe you. Who knew you the Griffindor Princess was capable of two timing anyone?" Draco sneers, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not two-timing you! Draco, you have to understand—" Hermione implores, grabbing his arm desperately.

"Don't waste your breath; I understand everything crystal clear," Draco replies, tone sharp. He turns to face her.

"Goodbye Granger." His eyes are cold flints of steel –flat and unforgiving. He turns, walking towards the door. "I won't disturb you anymore."

"Don't—don't leave! It's not like that; you have to understand! Draco, please," Hermione says desperately. She can do nothing more than watch helplessly as Draco leaves without a backward glance.

She collapses into the nearby chair, burying her face in her hands. Draco; he may not exuded any emotion outwardly, but she knew that he was feeling hurt, betrayed. He merely kept this hurt behind a wall of anger and indifference—he didn't want to show any weakness. This was a habit; being a Malfoy, he was taught not to show any emotion, because emotion equalled to weakness.

Draco Apparates back into the Malfoy Manor, furious, with Hermione, with himself.

Mostly himself, because he had let himself be close to Hermione. Number one rule of the Malfoy household: Rule with your head, never with your heart.

He knew he could not trust that Rita Skeeter, but seeing that paper—he just couldn't help it.

Hermione is clearing her table when she notices it. At first, it only looks like an inconspicuous box—she has many, many boxes—and looks just like any other box she has. But when she moves closer, the image shimmers. For a split second, she sees her name engraved. It's gone, the next moment, but Hermione knows it's real.

She walks closer. A layer of dust appears of the box, in an instance. A glance wouldn't spot the change, she realises.

Another few steps. A whole horde of ants appear—the kind she's deathly afraid of.

A small step forward. The ants vanish.

It's a clear Disillusionment charm—a very clever one, Hermione realises.

No longer afraid, she sprints the distance, grabbing the box and steps back. She feels sick, suddenly wanting to get away from there. And yet—something wrong there.

A few steps back. The sick feeling is gone, completely. Feeling puzzled, she moves a step forward. A wave of nausea washes over her again.

Oh. Forcefield. It's a forcefield. She knows what it is now, but the question was, why? What was inside that was so valuable?

Unthinking, she thumbed the velvet box gently, moving over its catch a few times.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," A silky voice said. Hermione spun around, seeing the person she least expected, at least not right now. "Draco," she gasped, falling a few steps back. He was so close—how did she not notice? More importantly—"How did you get in? I re-set the wards already!"

A quirked eyebrow and nothing more said. He holds his hand out—waiting for the mysterious box.

Hermione steps back. Just out of his reach—good. Fingering the catch, she looks up.

"Don't," Draco warns, his almost pleading—why?—gaze holding her curious one.

Impulsively, Hermione tilts the box lid, trying to get a glimpse—oh! The next moment, it's gone and back in Draco's possession. His stare at her is imperceptible, before he looks away.

Suddenly, all her anger for Draco dissipates, leaving behind a breathless hope flaring in her stomach.

It was going to be alright. Their relationship is real.

A glint in the box that catches in the light—deliciously painful hope sparks.


	3. Nothing Hurts Quite like Love

Title: Nothing Hurts Quite like Love

Words: 416

Rating: T

Hermione took a shuddering breath and tried to calm herself. It just wouldn't do to have her colleagues speculating what had made her so off-kilter and shaken.

Another deep breath. Erase all thoughts of the disaster that had been last night. Futile attempt. Memories flooded in, unwelcome.

She groaned and face-palmed onto the desk.

She had confessed her feelings for him because some _stupidly_ naïve, _innocent_ part of her _desperately_ wanted her happy ending.

It did not work out the way she had wanted it too. It was, really, too much to hope for.

She remembered the way he looked at her, after she poured her heart out—there was no requited feelings; only pity. And that was the worst. Annoyance, anger, laughter—all these she could handle. Everything except _pity_. That was the way people looked at those whom they thought couldn't take of themselves.

She looked at him after her confession, searching his eyes for any emotion, _anything_ at all. He focussed his eyes on her, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

There was silence for an unbearably long moment.

He replied, trying to be kind, "I'm sorry—I don't-"

She cut him off. "I _don't want your pity_."

Abruptly, she stood up and turned around, before walking off, her eyes shimmering with tears. She knew that if she didn't leave immediately, she would cry.

Over her slipping further away from her happy ending, till it was now nothing but a distant dream. Over the loss of the last shred of innocence, he had unknowingly stripped her of, when she realized there was _no such thing_ as a happy ending.

Unbeknownst to her, he stared at her retreating back with so much helpless longing.

"Hermione," An all-too-familiar voice called out from behind her.

She stiffened, not wishing Draco Malfoy, of _all_ people, to see her in this bedraggled, desperate state.

"Yes?" Hermione answered without turning to face him, her eyes fixated firmly in front of her. She hoped he wasn't able to see her swollen eyes or hear her nasal tone.

Draco began, "About last night, if you like, we can still be friends."

There was his arrogant tone. She braced herself for what she was about to say.

"Not. Bloody. Likely." She gritted out.

She winced slightly after saying that. Inside, she felt as if her heart was crumbling, knowing that there was no more hope, _none at all_. And it really did hurt, wishing for love you would never be given.


	4. Hope

Title: Hope

Words: 436

Rating: T

They tell her, she's his only visitor. Whenever she visits, once every three days, she asks the same question, hope still harbouring. Each time, their response is the same: A shake of their head, "Sorry Miss Granger, no one. It's just you. Is there someone you would like me to look out for?" And each time, a quirk of her lips, "No, that's alright. I'm just hoping they'll finally come to their senses and visit."

Each time, she brings the same book, now looking well-used. Each time, she sits in the same chair, on his left and watches him, as he breathes—but only with the help of the tube down his throat.

She opens her book and tries to read. She only gets as far as two pages, before she puts it down, barely able to look it at without feeling hopelessness.

She grasps his hand tightly, wishing the hopelessness would be washed away. Every time she visits and Harry and Ron still haven't visited, her heart sinks just a little more. Every time she visits and he still hasn't woken, a little of that hope harboured peels off, leaving guilt and regret, raw and opened.

"Please wake up…please." She whispers, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was you and—and I wanted to protect my friends. I'm really sorry. I don't think you were ever bad—"

"Are you quite sure, Granger?" A voice lazily drawls.

"Yes! Your father forced you to join the ranks—Malfoy! You woke up!" Hermione jumps back when she realizes he's awake.

"Why, yes, Granger. Such an astute observation." Draco Malfoy smirks, "But do tell me, how I came to this state. And why you're here."

It's his confident tone that causes her to flush. "You're…in St. Mungo's actually. You were hit by a Stunning spell to your heart and—I'm sorry Malfoy! It…it was me," At this point she swallows hard, the guilt crashing over her. She continues, "Who hit you with the spell. I—I didn't mean to and I thought you wouldn't ever—ever wake up—" Hermione breaks off.

All this time, he's been staring at her with an amused expression on his face. Suddenly and abruptly, he leans forward and seizes her lips in a bruising kiss.

Her undignified squeak is muffled.

By the time they both pull back, they're slightly flushed, pink evident in cheeks.

Another smirk is shown.

"I had to shut you up somehow. If I had known that would work, I would've done that an age ago."

Hermione just continues staring at him, a small smile of hope shining through.


	5. Life is Fair War is Kind

**A/N: Sorry guys! I haven't been updating at all, but here's a new chapter for you to make it up?**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything, all the work of the fantastic J K Rowling. **

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__Title: Life is Fair; War is Kind

Words: 703

Rating: K+

_It's been two years._

Two years since the semblance of her happily ever after was abruptly and unexpectedly shattered.

Two years since she bought the cottage by the sea.

Two years since she has been alone.

One year, four months, 9 hours and 2 minutes since Cassiopeia was born.

It wasn't supposed to _be like this_.

It was to be a happy joyous occasion, where celebration came hand in hand with champagne (juice for her) and hugs, kisses, and laughter.

But it hadn't. Instead, celebration came in the form of a blinding green light and a lifeless body crumpling to the ground. No laughter, only mournful sobs in black attires.

It was Draco's death anniversary. She remembered the short time they spent together.

It was full of secrets, of regret and guilt. She knew it was tearing him inside out to continue working for the side he hated, but it was the only way (to have to a fighting _chance_) to be together.

The chance which cost him his life (_their_ life together)

In the end, he was found out. Even though he had tried so hard not to be found out. Execution by the Killing Curse as punishment.

Everyone had been so comforting, consoling her. _Outwardly._ But she could see the _disappointment_ in their eyes. They were _disappointed_. Because now they had to _take extra time_ to find someone else, when they could be doing _so many more, much more important_ things.

They were appreciative of his help, really they were, but if he had stayed alive _just a little longer_, it would have been _much better_. Imagine it: they could have won the war a little earlier and get on with their lives just a little earlier. Oh, and what a _difference_ the one week could've made! A house could be moved into, an invention could be made, a _war _could've been started and finished (Although, didn't they just finish one? They couldn't remember). On the grand scale of everything, a week _really_ affected everything. So if he had stayed alive, they would've really appreciated it and recognized him as a war hero, instead of casting doubt on whether he was really on their side.

When she saw him fall helplessly to the ground, she had broken down and sobbed on the carpeted red floor. She had wept with anguish, thinking how _absolutely unfair it was_. It was supposed to be good over evil. Their side was _supposed_ to triumph over the Dark side. If this was triumph then she dreaded to think what defeat was.

When Harry and Ron came to comfort her, they tried their best, they did, but they didn't understand.

"I'm sorry Hermione. Really, we are sorry that this happened. But you know, at least he died fighting for a good cause."

"But today is supposed to be a good, happy, _joyous_ occasion. Does this _look_ like a _joyous_ occasion? He died fighting for a good cause, but he died not knowing that he is—_was_, now—going to be a father." Hermione replied bitterly.

"Oh Hermione, don't be such a—wait; father? Hermione, are you saying that— Merlin! I'm going to kill him—

"Oh really, Ron? Go ahead—oh wait, he's _already dead_."

Ron, like the war hero he was, only blushed and looked contrite for _a short moment_ before continuing, "How could he do such a thing to you!" It was that self-assured tone that Ron (heroes—all types—used that tone) often used, especially since the onset of the war. It was as if he was _wiser, smarter_ than everyone else _just because_ he went through _a war_.

Really, sometimes (_eighty percent of the time_) she agreed with everyone, on the part that she wished he _had stayed alive a little longer_. Even if it wasn't to help her through the times that she wanted _so much_ to give up, it was to be able to see Caasiopeia's important milestones (when she turned over, when she first walked; her first word—all those he should have been _there_).

Oh, but really, _absolutely nothing_ to worry about. Sooner or later, Fate will deal a good hand, just as life is fair and war is kind.


	6. A Thousand and One Regrets

**A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for sticking with me to the end, especially my darling reviewers! I might (or might not) add more, though. Enjoy!**

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Title: A Thousand and One Regrets

Words: 100

Rating: K

He regrets.

He shouldn't have been like a _mindless lost puppy_, hanging onto his parents every word and following, directionless.

He shouldn't have been so _easily influenced_. By his _friends_. By Slytherins. By _others_.

He regrets not following Voldermort's orders closely; not being on-guard all the time, making sure no one knew of his secret.

But the thing he most regrets, what's his _biggest regret_, is not being selfless enough—being the coward that he is—and not loving her enough, to let her go.

_ He regrets_. But it's too late; she's gone forever. And forever's an awfully long time.


End file.
